


In The Dark

by undercovercaptain



Series: Some Let Go and Some hold On [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle of Blackwater AU, F/M, Not a straightforward relationship, Rating May Change, but then is it ever?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercovercaptain/pseuds/undercovercaptain
Summary: In the dark I hear you singFingers move and chords they ringBe the witness of my shameSwaying in the summer rainFeathers falling from your wingIn the dark I hear you sing- 'Mary,' Agnes ObelThe Hound had left her. The battle rages on. Until some men win and the others lose. But all is not lost, hope does not die, and a girl once trapped is retrieved - but is she set free?





	1. In The Dark I Hear You Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! For those of you who have been reading 'The End of Childhood,' this must seem like a bit of a departure...but it's just been something rattling around my head for a bit so I thought I'd see where it goes :)
> 
> I suppose this is sort of a songfic in the sense that these six chapters are going to be structured around this verse from 'Mary' by Agnes Obel - so check that song out if you fancy, around the 3 minute mark is when this verse starts :) 
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

_In the dark I hear you sing_

… 

The Hound had left her. Angry, always angry, but this time he seemed also so very afraid. And so was she, huddled beneath his bloodied cloak as the world outside her chamber crashed to ruin, as the air filled up with the smoke of its burning. War, the blood-swollen god, the red animal—except here it was green, awful, terrible green that licked up the castle walls and ships in the bay, like a flashing serpent’s tongue. He had left her. He had left her and now she was alone.

            _I might die here._ A burnt man’s cloak her death shroud; she brought it up to her face, she shielded her eyes. The blood, still wet, stained her cheek, though she cared little for that now. Crimson red on a maiden’s pale, white cheek—a foolish thing to worry over when outside men burned and screamed in violence and agony. She thought of the Hound, thought of his fear, thought of her own fear and of how little there was to be done about it.

 _Out of the darkness I came, and into the darkness I go._ Like a storm-driven bird at night, flying out to the nowhere; for a moment her wings might be seen in the light of the flames, and then she’d be gone again, into that darkness which knows no end. _Oh, gentle Mother, font of mercy_. Except here there was no mother to usher her into that new plane of being, as she had borne her into the first. No soft and gentle touches, just the lingering remembrance of the Hound’s knife against her neck; the foul stench of wine upon his breath; the slickness of blood on his cheek, muddled with the dampness of unexpected tears. That was when she knew he was truly afraid, and perhaps she feared him less in that moment because of it. _I want to go someplace that isn’t burning_ , he had said. _I just want to go home_ , she cried to herself now, cowering upon her bed, quaking beneath his bloodied knight’s cloak. The white stained red.

            Some say it is familiarity with life that makes time pass by quickly. Yet when every day, every hour, and every minute seems to be a step into the unknown, time stretches onwards with the gathering of experience; it seems endless and full of possibilities. Such is the way of things for innocent, sheltered children of the long summer. But she had seen things, experienced things, no sweet summer maiden of four and ten should ever have borne witness to: a father cut down without mercy, his head put of a pike and her eyes made to look upon it. She had been forced into seeing the worst of the world’s atrocities, and yet time did not speed by as a result of it. No, it dragged on and on without abatement.

 _When I am dead, I will be with father. And I will tell him how sorry I am, so very, very sorry._ The tears came thick and fast: a torrent of sorrow to wash her away, to burn through her lungs and to clog up her throat. But they halted upon a startled gasp, as there came a sudden thundering at her door. _Ours is the fury_ , she thought numbly as the door crashed open; hinges groaning, wood splintering and clattering to the floor. _Or perhaps it is Ser Ilyn, come for my head._ She kept still. She held her breath.

            “My lady?” came a voice, hoarse from battle cries.

            She pressed her legs together, aware of the cloth between them, staunching the flow of her moonblood. She let out a quiet whimper as footsteps edged closer.

            “My lady, please. We are King Stannis’ men.”

            _There are no true knights, but father seemed to think Stannis Baratheon an honourable man. Can the same be said for his knights?_

            The cloak was abruptly lifted from her and a murmur erupted among the men as her Tully red hair was revealed. She could only be one lady and they had found her. The King should be pleased: a precious jewel retrieved amidst all this burning carnage.

            “Lady Sansa? I am Ser Richard Horpe, please, we must make haste: the battle rages on and I cannot confidently say that it is in our favour.”

            She lifted her tear-streaked face and observed the man before her, the obvious leader of this small band of would-be rescuers. Ser Richard’s eyes were hard and unyielding; his frame erect and lean; his face marred by pockmarks and old scars. He was not comely, not by any stretch of the imagination, and yet he was not so very frightening to look upon—not like the Hound. No, Ser Richard’s eyes were fierce but they did not frighten her, not when his hand stretched out to take hers with such measured care; as if he knew she was precious, as if he had been explicitly instructed not to do her harm.

            Four other knights flanked him, their faces agitated and made wary by the unremitting clamour and clatter of battle that surrounded them. Yet they bore themselves courageously, for without courage men are as the standing straw in an unreaped field in winter; and not the hooded pine, that keeps green in frost, whose blood still bounds in all its icy branches.

            “Come, my lady,” Ser Richard pleaded. “We shall not do you harm: we have been tasked with the safe deliverance of you and your sister to the King.”

            _Arya._ That wild little wolf girl, where was she now? _Lost forever. Or dead, like father—like Lady._ She felt very young in that moment, and yet at the same time, unspeakably aged.

            “She isn’t here, Ser,” she whispered, rising from the bed with the assistance of the scarred knight’s proffered hand. “She fled after—after—” She could not continue, and thankfully she did not have to as a large, and not so distant, explosion of wildfire rattled the glass of her chamber’s window.

            Ser Richard nodded jerkily, his flinty eyes darting to the broken doorway. Then, all at once, she was bundled up in the Hound’s bloodied cloak and slung over the shoulder of one of the knights. She let out a startled yelp and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The knight’s armour dug sharply into the softness of her belly as he swiftly moved down the corridor, but she kept quiet. More bruises to join the others—a foolish thing to worry over. Best think of something else.

 _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , she told herself. _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , as the King’s knights weaved through the fighting, the clashing of steel thundering in her ears. _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , when the shouts of men clamouring to board the few remaining ships became almost deafening. _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , as she was carefully set down, the wooden deck almost rolling out from beneath her unsteady feet. _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , as she was suddenly left to stand alone.

            They were sailing away from the Blackwater, away from the Red Keep, away from King’s Landing; the waters angry, lashed into fury, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring onwards as fast as she could: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast.

            In victory one does not understand the horror of war. It is only in the cold chill of defeat that it is brought home to you. She saw that truth in his eyes when she finally beheld him: a tall, solitary figure at the prow of the ship. _Despair has its own calms_ , she thought. It could only be him. The King. His hair Baratheon black and his eyes like the wild sea that surrounded them: no mercy, no power but his own controlling their unflinching gaze. _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , she reminded herself, taking a shaky step forward. _Stannis won’t hurt me_ , as her strength began to drain away; as her knees quaked; as her body started to sway. _Stannis won’t hurt me,_ as his eyes abruptly met hers. _Stannis won’t hurt me,_ she whispered when the darkness came, heady and engulfing.

_Stannis won’t hurt me._

            A soft song that drifted upon the air about that war tossed sea like the lightest of feathers; certainty mixed with a plea. A soft song, yes, and yet it hung heavily about his ears, about his chest, as he lurched forward to catch her; as he settled her into his arms; as he held her there, both slumped on the deck as the waves crashed around them: panting and snorting like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider. Masterless and vast—that sea will overrun the world one day.

...

_In the dark I hear you sing_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter! 
> 
> Each line of the song verse will hopefully tie in with the chapter as a whole, so do with that information what you will... ;)
> 
> Special thanks to Tommyginger for helping me brainstorm for this and generally being a lovely person to share ideas with :)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated! 
> 
> Cappy x


	2. Fingers Move and Chords They Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments! Hope you enjoy this new chapter :)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

_Fingers move and chords they ring_

 … 

Davos had fallen, his four eldest boys with him. So many men lost, so many and for what? _Suspense is irksome, disappointment bitter._ But this was more than that. Grief is the agony of but an instant, he told himself, the indulgence of it the blunder of life; and yet this pain, this grief for his fallen friend lingered on. It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their passions. But he was not Robert, and he could never forget it—was never allowed to forget it. So he determined now that he would be everything that they said he was: a king of cold, unbendable iron. Besides, even grief became dulled with time; only Time was good for sorrow—Time who saw the passing of each mood, each fit of anger, each wave of unworthiness; Time the layer-to-rest.

            He could hardly look at Alester Florent when he had named him Hand, let alone bear his presence. So he had locked himself away in the Stone Drum, to brood silently upon his losses. But silence, after all, is only a name, never a fact. There are noises in even the most absolute quiet. The rain beat down hard around him and the wind screamed, rattling the casements as though an impatient hand outside was striving to burst them open. But no hand was there. He was alone, except for the Red Woman. She lingered in the shadows, but offered no real comfort; her words no welcome counsel.

            “My King, will you not go with me to the Dragonmont to watch the fires?” she had purred.

            “No,” he had replied, his voice hoarse from ill use.

            The deeper a person falls into darkness, into difficulty, the less they want to think—to stare at useless flames, to talk of false prophecies. But by some sort of instinct, they feel that they ought to, and it makes them feel guilty. So they will bless and follow anyone who gives them a justification for not thinking. So it would have been so easy to go with her. But he was _The King_. And he had to be better, had to do better. He had been thoughtless before, he knew that now: why had he not sent scouts ahead of the battle? Why had he not sent scouts _months_ ago? Had he been so blinded by his own hubris that he had assumed the battle won before it was even fought? _Wildfire. That damned wildfire. If I believed in the Seven Hells, I might have thought myself there._

            Melisandre had left him soon after his terse refusal; red skirts swirling and hips swaying, no doubt. He had not noticed. Just as he had not noticed when the evening advanced, his hunger fading to a dull ache; when the shadows had lengthened upon the walls; the waters calming, becoming still and pitchy black. The sigh of the sea breaking in measure around the island did little to soothe him though. Even as the night wrapped itself surely about him, the King did not leave the Stone Drum. _I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep._

            Violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes long after those who worked the desolation are but atoms of earth themselves. But he would not become a page in someone else’s history book, not after all he had done. _My duty. I have been doing my duty._ We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things, to save people who are beyond saving; because the shadow always follows. If he were a different man— _aye, and not King—_ he might have had the luxury of choosing a place for himself where he could do no harm. _Yes, and stand in it for all I’m worth, facing the sunshine._ Indeed, for there are dark shadows upon this earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.

            _The girl._ So small and so pale, she had been in his arms. He had half feared the blood on her white cloak to be hers, but she had been well—just overcome by the ordeal of her rescue. And yet, before she had fainted, when their eyes had met, she had looked at him with such immense relief, such fervent trust. Even as he was: bloody and battle-worn, beaten down by his defeat, hardly a worthy hero from a maiden’s fantasy. _Sansa Stark, what horrors have you seen? What abuses have you suffered?_ Signs are small measurable things, but interpretations are illimitable, and in girls of sweet, ardent nature, every sign is apt to conjure up wonder, hope, and belief as vast as the sky. _She looked at me like I was her saviour. I did one thing right then._

            Even when she had stirred, he had kept hold of her still. He had carried her to his cabin, to the small trestle bed there, and laid her gently upon it, her arms slowly slipping from about his neck. All the while her eyes, so clear and unflinching, had watched him with something akin to wonder. And he had stared back, unable to look away—unsure of what to say, how to behave, how to quell the storm of pain and failure that raged inside of him. There are many kinds of silence, this is true, and they breathe many different meanings. Outside the sea had crashed and struck against the side of the ship, causing the vessel to sway and groan with every new wave. It did not frighten her though. No, she was not frightened, even though she was the only woman aboard a ship of newly defeated soldiers; their number dwindled; their losses sitting heavy in their chests, stirred up by injury and hopelessness. _A woman—no, she is but a girl. A child. An innocent, foolish child._

            It is not just in wartime that the happiness of youth can prove to be an illusion, though war gives perspective to many things. Yet in times of particular turmoil, in times such as these, the young soon realise that they are wretched; for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them by pandering maesters and septas, and each time they come into contact with the real cruelty of the world they find themselves bruised and wounded. _No doubt she has suffered much._ Her father dead, her sister lost. Perhaps she might still be found? Perhaps justice might still prevail. He may never have liked Ned Stark but he had respected him; respected his honour; his sense of duty; that steely Northern resilience. _But Ned Stark had been thoughtless._ He would not make the same mistake. Not now. Not again.

When she did not speak, when she had just lain there gazing up at him, he had decided that the initiative lay with him. So he had knelt down by the trestle bed and tentatively placed a hand on her arm.

            “You are safe now, my lady,” he had said gruffly; his touch so light, so cautious.

            “Thank you—th—thank you! I was so—I was s—so afraid.”

            He recalled now the stuttering catch in her voice. A pause, and then a thin, pale arm reaching round his shoulders; slender fingers pulling him towards her; a flushed face pressed into his chest. He had stiffened immediately, but she had not relinquished her hold on him. Soon her eyes had pooled with tears—but not tears of sadness or pain, no, they were tears of _relief_.

            Our fate is like tinder: the flint and steel of our wants are continually striking out sparks, which can vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the kindling of coincidence; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is lighted in but a moment. And sometimes, a moment of touching is the difference between despair and the ability to carry on. For the wings of action and justice cannot long lie folded.

            _She is safe now._ Tucked away in some lofty bedchamber like a maiden from a song. He hadn’t liked leaving her. It had unsettled him, how her blue eyes had widened with concern when he had moved away from her; when he had risen and stood in front of her for but a moment, before swiftly heading towards the cabin door. He hadn’t liked it. He had felt like he had failed her in some way—that she might never look at him the way she had again, because he had failed to do… _what exactly?_ He did not know. _I am no maiden’s hero. I am The King._

            He had left her then, and he had not seen her since; he had instructed the Queen to see to her comfort once they had arrived at Dragonstone. But the memory of her fingers clutching him so tightly, so close, had stayed with him, just as surely as his grief for his fallen Hand. Nothing broke him out of the dark stupor he had fallen into, that is until the sound of birds, their thin voices weaving through the whiteness of a misty dawn, rang out through the island. From the death of each day’s hope another hope springs up to live tomorrow. Stannis Baratheon needed only the strength of heart to see it.

...

_Fingers move and chords they ring_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, looks like someone has obviously made a bit of an impression... ;)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	3. Be The Witness of My Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thanks for all the lovely reviews, here's a longer chapter for you guys to hopefully enjoy :)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

_Be the witness of my shame_

 …

The chambers Queen Selyse had assigned her to were atop the Dreamer’s Spire: a tall, narrow tower that overlooked Aegon’s Garden. Upon first entering, she had seen in the dim light that her chamber’s walls were massively carved: twisting, writhing, and clawed shapes were inlaid into the black stone. _Dragons. They are dragons._ The room was by no means large, but at the far end of it was an old oak door; studded with iron nails; its hinges hardy, yet still creaking at even the slightest push. It led out to a stone balcony overlooking the garden below.

            With a name like Dreamer’s Spire, she might have been forgiven for feeling a little shocked at the gloomy grimness of it. _It is like a name out of a song._ And yet such was the aspect of the entire castle: to her eyes, Dragonstone seemed to frown defiance on all who dared look upon it.

            But she had still smiled with genuine gratitude when Lady Larissa Velaryon had led her to her new chambers. With a shy smile in return, the Queen’s lady had promptly bid her good evening on that first night, with the promise that a late supper was on its way to her. _It is not so very grim. Only a little out of use, I suspect. In any case, it is not the gilded cage my chamber in King’s Landing was._ Indeed, when she had fallen asleep that first night at Dragonstone she had done so with a mood of hope: not hope on any definite point, but a general sense of encouragement and heart-ease.

            Though darkly furnished, the room did have some almost charming details: on the far wall opposite her fur-laden, canopied bed, there was a large tapestry depicting a hunting scene. Riders and their hounds chased a mighty stag through a sunlit sky; their leader white bearded, and wearing a beautiful bronze helmet inscribed with runes. However, the true oddness of the scene was that the hunters themselves were being pursued by a whirling tempest of snow and ice, its darkness starting to encroach upon the light. Woven from wool and silk thread, some of which were wrapped in silver and gold, the tapestry appeared to shimmer when she held a candle up to it.

            To the left of the tapestry, in the middle of the wall, was a tall window whose ledge acted as a table. Outside, a pine tree stood close enough for its branches and needles to touch the latticed glass; its scent seeped through its cracks to perfume the room, giving it pleasant, woodsy smell.

            Another curiosity lay at the end of her bed where there was a wooden chest, in it she found a large square box, made of weirwood and inscribed with similar runes to those on the bronze helmet. It contained a chequered playing board and thirty-two ivory pieces, half of which were painted red. _Like the sap of the heart tree._ It was not cyvasse, and that was all she knew of it. Its pieces were not made up of elephants, dragons or catapults. They were strange little people, some of them wild-eyed and biting their kite-shaped shields in a battle frenzy. _How peculiar. Strategy was never my strong suit, but I would play if I knew how—If someone were here to teach me, to play with me._ Besides the occasional servant, she had yet to speak to anyone, however.

            Seemingly as soon as she had arrived and been placed into the Queen’s care, the wind had begun to moan about the island in hollow murmurs. A train of dull, grey clouds had appeared, menaced with thunder and lightning. Large drops of rain, succeeded by more storm clouds came sailing onward; overtaking the void left by the others, and spreading all over the sky. The darkness of an hour seemed to have gathered in an instant on that first evening, and it had yet to be fully lifted.

            For several days now she had sat by her window desk and watched the relentless rain run down the glass. With nothing else to do, she would try to amuse herself by choosing one of two raindrops to win the race down the windowpane; or, she would imagine walks down below in Aegon’s Garden when the weather was improved. _Mayhaps I might pick some of the roses for my room? I do hope they are not too battered by the storm._

            She told herself to be grateful, to be thankful for her rescue. But in truth, this solitude oppressed her. She was accustomed to having her thoughts confirmed by others, or, at all events, sharply contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.

            She had no books to read to pass the time, and she had yet to be sent for by either the King or the Queen. She had met both, briefly and in separate instances. Queen Selyse was no queen of songs, yet she dressed richly enough. But she was plain, with every indication that she had always been so. Her eyes were watery pale, her nose too sharp to be distinguished, and she suffered from hair growth on her upper lip. Alongside that, the Queen was as tall as her husband, yet without the strength of build to carry it attractively, and she possessed the unfortunate Florent trait of too-large ears. Nevertheless, Sansa hoped that kindness would be the Queen’s true beauty. _She was direct and stern when she had ordered her ladies to see to my needs. But she was not unkind._

            Yet it was not the Queen’s manner that truly plagued her thoughts. No, it was the King’s. _He had held me so gently. I felt so safe in his arms._ But, in King’s Landing, even before King Robert had died, people had spoken of Stannis Baratheon as if he hadn’t a heart to stab at. By all accounts, he was a man who lacked softness, sympathy and sentiment, and so their slights and jibes were of little consequence in their eyes. _There must be some mistake. He saved me. He saved me when no one would, when no one else thought to._

            When the stormy weather had finally abated, she cautiously ventured out onto her stone balcony to look down upon the garden. The dark greens of the pine trees and the towering thorny hedges were still wet and glossy from the recent rainfall, yet miraculously the wild roses had survived the onslaught.

            It is said that every life has its roses and thorns; yet there seemed, however, to have been a misadventure in Sansa Stark’s case, whereby somebody else had come into possession of her roses, and she had become possessed of the same somebody else’s thorns, in addition to her own. But now everything was different, because she was safe. King Stannis had told her she was safe.

            As she looked out across the wild, wind-tossed garden, she saw a flash of red and then the figure of a woman appeared as if from nowhere. This red woman held her gaze for a moment and smiled up at her, before departing just as soon as she had arrived. _Who was that? One of Queen Selyse’s ladies?_ She had little time to dwell in her thoughts, as there suddenly came a loud rapping noise from inside her chamber. She hurried back into the room, smoothing down strands of her hair that had been displaced by the wind.

            “Enter.”

            “My lady,” came the gruff voice of Ser Richard Horpe.

            The scarred knight stood stiffly by the door, his back keeping it open as he quietly observed her. So pleased to finally see a vaguely familiar face, she smiled back at him unabashedly.

            “Ser, forgive me, I never had the chance to offer you my thanks—”

            “Tis no matter,” he interjected brusquely, though his pox marked cheeks were tinged an almost imperceptible pink. “The King has summoned you to the Chamber of the Painted Table, and I am to take you there.”

            “An audience with the King?” She wrung her hands together and peered up at him nervously. _King Stannis is not Joffrey. He is not Joffrey._

            “Aye, my lady. Best not keep him waiting.”

            “N—no.”

            She smoothed down the skirts of her woollen gown, worrying over its ill fit: it was a castoff of one of the Queen’s ladies, kindly meant she was sure, though it was a little loose around the waist and too tight at the bodice. Its blue dye had long faded, yet even in its full vibrancy it would have still been considered a plain dress, with only a few swirls of red and white embroidery decorating its sleeves. _I must be grateful to her grace for providing for me. I do not think the King is a man to care for a lady’s dress—though I know so little of him._

            Ser Richard cleared his throat and inclined his head towards the dimly lit passage way; flushing momentarily, she took a decisive step forwards and followed Ser Richard out of her bedchamber. Walking quietly behind him, she took every chance she could to peer out the tall arched casements that lined the walls of the castle: from them she saw the outer bailey, the practice yard, and beyond that, a small fishing village. Outside was one of those blustery, grey days, when the daylight is silver when it should be gold, and pewter when it should be silver. _Does the sun never shine here?_ Eventually, after many winding staircases and long corridors, they reached the Chamber of the Painted Table.

            It was a great round room at the very top of the Stone Drum. Its walls were made of the same dreary black stone as the rest of the castle, with four narrow windows facing North, South, East and West. At the centre of the chamber was an imposingly large wooden table, more than fifty feet long, and carved into the shape of Westeros; its surface was painted with the Seven Kingdoms.

            “Your Grace, I have brought for you Lady Sansa.”

            At the sound of Ser Richard’s rough voice, her eyes immediately left the table to stare at the man he had addressed. _Stannis Baratheon. King Stannis._ He stood by the only chair in the room, and she recognised its location to be precisely where Dragonstone was situated, off the coast of the mainland. The King had been bent over the table, his brow furrowed and his hands pressed against the wood, but he had straightened as soon as Ser Richard had spoken. Suddenly, she was very much aware of how incredibly tall he was, of how strong he looked. _He is not quite as tall as the Hound, but he looks just as fierce._

            “Leave us.” His voice was low and commanding.

            She watched with wide, anxious eyes as Ser Richard swiftly left to room, leaving her alone with the King.

            “Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping into a low curtsey.

            “No need for that, my lady.”

            She blushed and rose a little shakily, keeping her eyes downcast and her palms firmly clasped together. “Your grace, I wish to—to thank you for rescuing me. King’s Landing was—I was a foolish girl when I first came there. I did not know what Joffrey was really like. I had no idea that he would—that he would…My father—”

            “You put your trust in the wrong people.”

            “Yes. Yes, I did.” She nodded her head solemnly and finally met his stormy blue gaze; he was watching her very closely it seemed. She tried not to fidget under such strong scrutiny. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

            “You have suffered much.”

            “Joffrey…he is so cruel. He is a monster.”

            He took a hesitant step towards her then, his eyes never leaving hers.

            “Did he hurt you?”

            “Yes,” she whispered; her fingers instinctively wrapped around the cuffs of her gown. His eyes followed her movements and he took another step towards her—slow and deliberate, as if she might suddenly bolt at any moment like a startled doe. _Stannis won’t hurt me. He saved me._

            He was close enough now that he was able to reach out and take one of her thin wrists into his large, battle-worn hands. Her breath caught in her chest as he carefully pushed up her sleeve, revealing the mottled bruises underneath.

            “Did he do this?” His eyes were blazing and she was thankful that his anger was not directed at her, but rather at the architect of her suffering.

            “Not himself. He—he would have his Kingsguard beat me, if I displeased him or if my brother had been successful on the battlefield.”

            His thumb moved lightly against her pale skin, though he seemed unconscious of it. _The way he is looking at me…he looks almost pained._

            Curiosity is, and has been from the creation of the world, a master-passion. To awaken it, to gratify it by slight degrees, and yet leave something always in suspense, is to establish the surest hold that can be had. It was better to know the worst than to wonder.

            “My lady, forgive me, for I must ask you…do you remain a maiden?”

            She tensed immediately and hastily removed her wrist from his grasp; the King swiftly folded his arms behind his back and frowned down at her.

            “I—I—no one has touched me your Grace! There were riots and—and I was almost—but the Hound, he stopped them…” She felt a sob rising in her chest and her heart began to feel as if it was being clutched in a tight fist. “P—please your Grace, I am a maiden, I swear it on the Old Gods and the New.” She closed her eyes and felt hot tears slip down from under her lids. “Please, don’t send me back,” she whimpered brokenly.

            “Send you back?” He sounded incredulous and he let out a harsh bark of laughter that was devoid of all humour. “Finding you has been the only good thing to come out of this sorry mess. Dry your tears, my lady, you need not fear reprisal from me.”

            “Thank you, your Grace,” she murmured quietly, snuffling a little as she wiped her damp cheeks with her sleeve; her face was flushed from her tears and now also with embarrassment. _Stannis won’t hurt me. Stannis will be kind._

            He nodded once and then looked about the room a little awkwardly; he opened his mouth and then closed it just as quickly. He was about to repeat the motion when Ser Richard suddenly appeared, out of breath and with a look of unrestrained horror in his eyes.

            “My King,” he panted. “It is the Queen.”

            “What of her?” The King’s voice was sharp with impatience.

            “She went with Lady Melisandre to the Dragonmont, to watch the fires inside…” his voice faltered and his gaze turned to Sansa. _Oh Gods, what has happened?_

“Out with it!” growled the King.

            The knight resolutely looked back at him. “She sacrificed herself to the flames, sire; to the Lord of Light. The Queen is dead.”

 …

_Be the witness of my shame_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened. Thoughts? 
> 
> Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- 'Dreamer's Spire' is just a little invention of mine, named after Daenys Targaryen, also called Daenys the Dreamer. Daughter of Aenar, it was her prophetic dream which led the first Targaryens to leave Valyria and head for Dragonstone. 
> 
> \- So the scene depicted in the tapestry is meant to be reminiscent of the 'Wild Hunt,' which is a recurring motif in European folklore. My particular uni interest is Viking stuff so my 'Wild Hunt' especially taps into Norse mythology/Nordic folklore. For example, when Odin's hunt was heard, it meant changing weather in many regions, but it could also mean war and unrest. So interpret that how you will... ;) 
> 
> – In her room, Sansa essentially finds a chess set, heavily based on the Lewis chessmen - 12th century chess pieces made of walrus ivory which were famously discovered in 1831 on Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, Scotland. They are thought to have been made in Trondheim, Norway, or at the very least, one of the Nordic countries. My chess set, like that one, also has some vaguely mysterious origins...
> 
> Basically, I think cyvasse is a bit stupid and it irks me that there's a king piece but no queen, but oh of course we've got to have a dragon! *rolls eyes* I have tweaked my chess set a bit (its name, its pieces) but if anyone has seen the chess scene in 'Kingdom of Heaven' that's a little hint towards why I've included it ;)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	4. Swaying In The Summer Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) Thank you for all the kind reviews, hope you enjoy this new Stannis pov! Special shoutout to that one scene in Kingdom of Heaven that I mentioned in the notes last time ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

  _Swaying in the summer rain_

…

He had not loved her. She had not loved him. Yet, often it was said that they were made for one another: so dour and scowling, both lacking in sentiment, yet never contented; cold, hard people destined to live out their days upon a cold, hard rock of an island. She had said that their marriage had been cursed—cursed because of the lustful folly of his brother and her cousin. Yes, curses and disrespect that is what she always spoke of. _I have known disrespect my entire life. I knew it before my ill-fated marriage and I feel it now from all those who still deny me as King._

            Maybe that is what comforted her, after every still-born, after every babe that quickened in her womb only to be bled out, after every time he left her as soon as their duty was done—they were cursed. Robert and Delena had cursed them. But curse or not, he knew that even if she had born him a son, he could never have loved her. There had never been any hope for that. Hope for sons, yes, but never for love. Even in the full bloom of her girlhood, Selyse Florent would never have been called beautiful, but he was not the type of man to place a woman’s worth entirely on the measure of her looks. _Too many beauties have fickle minds and even fickler hearts._ No, he could never have loved her because when he had bent to remove her maiden’s cloak he had seen it: the flicker of disappointment in those watery pale eyes that he was himself and not Robert. And he had never forgotten it.

            As matters stood now, he did not know what he should feel regarding her sudden death. He could not mourn her for herself, as an affectionate husband might. Yet he was not so unfeeling as to not feel grief on the behalf of his daughter. _Selyse hardly paid her any attention; so desperate she was for a son. But she was still her mother, and I know what it is for a child to experience such a loss._

            He had both anticipated and feared the arrival of tears when he had told his daughter of her mother’s death. But Shireen had borne the news with a quiet resignation far exceeding her tender years, and part of him was undeniably relieved that those tears had not come; that soft, placating words had not been required of him. _I wish just one word were enough: I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end._ Whether or not her reaction was truthful, or just a mask of resolve in order to appease him, he did not know. He did not linger in his daughter’s chambers long enough to find out. _The Queen may be dead but the King still stands._

            With no mistress to serve, Selyse’s ladies were now effectively without use or purpose. Larissa Velaryon and Donella Bar Emmon, both young, noble ladies from houses sworn to Dragonstone, had sequestered themselves away in their late Queen’s chambers, with Selyse’s spinster cousin, Korina Florent. They feared for their position and so they hoped that by making themselves scarce their King might forget about their dwindling necessity within his household. For the moment, he decided to leave them to their devices, to their weeping and their sewing of mourning clothes—he had far more pressing matters to deal with, namely the suspicious circumstances surrounding the Queen’s sudden death. That, and the astounding return of Davos Seaworth, rescued from the Spears of the Merling King by one of Sallador Saan’s ships; blown off course and heaven-sent. _A miracle, if I believed in such things._

            But now the King’s most loyal friend and advisor was imprisoned beneath the castle’s foundations, taken away by Ser Axell as soon as he set foot upon the island’s black sand. His crime: plotting to murder the Lady Melisandre. Not long after Davos’ arrest, the King’s Hand, Alester Florent joined him in his cell. _When I first left King’s Landing I thought I was leaving behind its plots and schemes. But Lord Florent would have me return there to swear fealty to a false boy king, born of incest, and he’d have Shireen marry the monster’s brother to further sweeten the deal._ Treachery is a spear pointed at both ends, and more often than not it wounds those who wield it far more than their enemies. _I will see that he is justly punished for such treachery. But Davos… he is another matter entirely._

            With a heavy sigh, the King sat down wearily before the Painted Table; he had yet to truly leave the chamber’s confines except to inform his daughter of her mother’s death; yet to truly see anyone bar the Stark girl. He dragged a hand across his tired eyes as the other clenched into a fist. High above the rumbling in the hearth’s chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, a wailing, rushing sound could be heard, which almost shook the Stone Drum’s walls as if a giant’s hand were on them. Then there was a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad; and finally, with a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on and all was quiet again. He looked across at the fire in the grate, watching the previously dwindling flames flicker and lick up the logs of wood as they slowly grew in strength again.

            Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.

            _The Red Woman._ He had not wondered at where she had gone when he had dismissed her during those first few days when his mood was at its blackest. And he had hardly thought of her since then, so consumed he was with other thoughts, with other concerns. _The Stark girl. The Queen was meant to see to her needs but I fear she has been neglected. When I saw her, she seemed so pale and fragile, so easily startled._

            On the few nights that he had managed to make the long walk to his chambers, collapsing onto his bed for just a few scant hours, he had dreamt of a thick, black cloud, swirling before him. He had no control over it. Such is the way of dreams—they can come through stone-walls, light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths. Every time he attempted to sleep the dream came to him, and every time he saw it his mind told him that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon his appalled senses, lurked all that was darkly threatening, all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the world. And it was circling him and getting closer and closer. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark shadow-mist, each a menace and a warning of something coming. With a throbbing pulse, burning skin, and wild eyes, he would wake feeling as though the early morning light were a welcome beacon of safety, and so he shunned the night and sleep as if they were foul and hideous things.

 _I have been dealing with forces of which I know nothing._ The Red Woman has a way of creeping into a person’s mind as a hermit crab takes over a whelk’s shell. _I only saw what she could offer me. I never considered what she might take for herself—for her god. What her spells and incantations might leave behind._

            Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, the King suddenly slammed a fist down against the table, jostling some of the pieces upon it. How often it is that an angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him. Letting out a shaky breath, he abruptly rose from the table. His instincts told him that by spurning Melisandre’s offers to watch the fires he had unwittingly pushed her towards a mind more open to her fanaticism. What could Selyse have seen in those flames that would persuade her to take her own life, to sacrifice herself to the Lord of Light? Did she go willingly to her death or was she… _persuaded?_ So many questions fought for prominence in his mind as he paced about the room. _If had not locked myself away like a sick child I might now be in possession of more facts. Gods, I’ve got to get out of this room._

            He let his feet carry him senselessly out of the Stone Drum, through corridors, down steps, and along narrow pathways; unseeing and uncaring of where he was truly going. _Out. I’ve got to get out._ Soon he found himself surrounded by dark spruces and large bushes bearing vibrant fruit, clustered together like coral beads. Around him, the trees seemed to lean towards one another, dark and ominous, even in the early morning light. _Aegon’s Garden._ A gust of wind picked up and the slighter branches cracked and rustled as they moved. These trees have been making music long before he had been born, and would continue to do so after his death, but their song was of the moment.

            “Your Grace,” came a soft voice, startling him from his musings.

            To the left of him was Sansa Stark, sitting demurely upon a long stone bench, staring up at him with wide, fathomless blue eyes. Beside her was a chequered game board, its pieces positioned somewhat disorderly—as if she was unsure of their correct place. The winds were about and walking, lifting up the ends of her coppery red hair despite her best attempts to smooth them back down.

            “Forgive me, your Grace,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing as she all but scrambled to pack away her game. He took a purposeful step towards her, halting her movements.

            “There is no need to apologise, my lady.” He tried to measure his voice so that it might not sound so stern, as it was always wont to do, but the girl still looked up at him with startled eyes. _She is afraid of me._

            Resignation brings a curious courage; with it the soul takes risks, and dares. The King tentatively sat down beside her.

            She offered him a small smile in return and bowed her head a little, as if half afraid to let him see it. _Joffrey was a foolish brute to mistreat her so._ Regarding her carefully, he saw that her hands had stilled their tidying, though she still clasped one game piece between her pale, gentle fingers. _The King._

            A shining lock of hair blew across her eyes, causing her other hand to reach up to brush it away. As he quietly watched her, one of his own hands oddly tightened its hold upon his upper thigh. She glanced at him shyly, her lips pursing slightly as she decided whether or not to speak.

            “I must offer you my condolences, your Grace," she said softly at last. "The Queen, she was—she was very gracious to me.”

            He scoffed and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. “She was meant to see to your comfort, not leave you alone in your chambers for days on end. I am correct, am I not?” He turned in his seat to better regard her. _No doubt she will fall back on her false courtesies. She does not wish to offend me._ He resisted the urge to glare down at her. _I must treat her carefully. Gently._

            With eyes downcast, she gave him a little nod, but then swiftly met his gaze and looked at him imploringly: “I do not mean to be ungrateful, your Grace. Please, you must forgive me.”

            “There is nothing to forgive,” he responded just as quickly, startling himself somewhat. “I will see to it that you are not neglected. Perhaps…” he paused, and observed her for a moment. “Perhaps you might become acquainted with my daughter? I fear she is in need of female companionship, particularly now the Queen is dead.”

            She smiled back at him and nodded her assent. “Yes, I would be most honoured.” Looking down at the game piece still in her hand, she traced its engraved crown with a delicate finger and her smile broadened. “I should like someone to play this game with—someone who knows what it is and how to play it.” She glanced up at him, an expectant gleam present in her bright blue eyes.

            “It is called Tafl.” Without thinking, his hand reached across to lightly touch the ivory king piece, their fingers brushing against one another as he did so. “It was one of the only things that survived the wreck that killed my parents,” he murmured lowly, his voice suddenly sounding very far away—lost in memories. “It washed up on the shore along with that witless fool, Patchface. They must have bought it in Volantis, though it was not made there: it is an ancient game played by the First Men.” He looked at her then, his eyes slowly wandering over her face.

            “ _Tafl,_ ” she repeated, tracing the pale face beneath her fingertips. “It looked so familiar, and yet I couldn’t think why…”

            Taking the piece gently from her hands, he placed it upon the chequered game board and began to arrange the tafl pieces in their correct positions. He could feel her innocent, inquisitive eyes watching him. With his own eyes still fixed on the red and white ivory pieces before him, he began naming each piece as he moved them into place: “retainer, berserker, ealdorman, warder, King, and Queen.

            “It is not like cyvasse at all.”

            “It is quite different,” he agreed. “The whole world is in tafl. Any move can be the death of you. Do anything except remain where you started and you can’t be sure of your end.” He paused, finally meeting her eyes. “Were you sure of your end once?”

            He heard her intake of breath; saw the uneasy way her fingers curled up in her lap. “Yes,” she breathed, her gaze locked in his.

            “What was it?”

            “To be married to a southern lord and to bear his children. To—to marry Joffrey and be his Queen.”

            He nodded. “And now?”

            “Now I sit in Aegon’s Garden, and look upon a king. A _true_ king.”

            _Aye, and I will see that justice is done, come what may._ “Remember, my lady, none of us know our end, or what will guide us there, not really. A king may move a man, but that man, that _woman,_ can also move herself. And only then does that woman truly begin her own game. Remember that.”

            Before she could speak a fat raindrop fell down upon her flushed cheek, and then another, and another, until the rain was coming down thick and fast all around them. Swiftly, he helped her pack the tafl set back into its weirwood box. Then, without thinking, his hand glided down her arm and folded over her hand. His fingers laced with hers, palms kissing, as he led her to the dry sanctuary of a dark-stoned colonnade. Once under it, he felt her step shyly closer to him, her rain-wet hair now a shade darker than it was before. She kept her gaze averted, fixed on the falling rain and the swaying of the trees.  _This girl...Ned Stark's daughter. But who is she really?_

            He abruptly released her hand. She turned to face him, with eyes so accepting, so full of unwavering trust.

            “I must go. Forgive me.”  _There are matters I must attend. Wrongs I must right._

…

_Swaying in the summer rain_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- So Selyse's ladies are my own invention: Donella Bar Emmon (elder sister of Lord Duram), Larissa Velaryon (elder sister of Lord Monterys, daughter of deceased Lord Monford), and Korina Florent (younger daughter of Ser Colin, cousin of Queen Selyse). 
> 
> \- "Tafl" (pronounced as if it's a "v" not an "f") is an early Scandinavian board game, played on a checkered or latticed game board with two armies of uneven numbers. It is sort of a catch-all term meaning table or board in Old Norse, though "hnefatafl" became the preferred term for the game in Scandinavia by the end of the Viking Age, to distinguish it from other board games, such as "skáktafl" (chess). 
> 
> So my game is sort of a mix between that and chess, as well Anglo-Saxon/Viking culture more generally. And because both those cultures have used runes (see the Old English, Norwegian, and Icelandic Rune Poems) that, for me, connects up with what we know about the language/culture of the First Men. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. As always, reviews are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	5. Feathers Falling From Your Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back babyyyyy ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

_Feathers falling from your wing_

…

In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is a story of the earth. To her mind it wasn’t difficult to imagine Dragonstone having emerged from the dark waters before her—its solitary volcano spitting fire as if it were the island’s infant cries, locked in a fierce battle with its ocean mother, struggling to be born. Dragonstone’s black sands seemed to stain the frothing water, mingling with the white waves that would crash down only to retreat again; the tang they left in the air untainted, fresh, and free. Their spray cool on her cheek like a quieting thought. _I want to run the beach’s length. Wild like Arya, like Rickon. This stretch looks as though it could go on forever._

            “Lady Sansa, what think you of this one?”

            Pulled out of her musings, she turned and smiled at the little princess. The younger girl was regarding her expectantly and holding out a pale, pretty shell for her to inspect.

            “A fine addition, princess.”

            Shireen grinned happily, though her scaled cheek remained taut—frozen and grey. She then handed the shell over so that her new companion might add it to the growing cluster gently held in her hand. At certain angles and in certain lights, the black sand that surrounded them seemed to wink and twinkle, revealing that it was not truly black at all. It was made of shell dust, like stardust, among which, if you sifted it with your fingers, were shimmery infant shells as small as the grains but perfectly shaped. Scattered over the surface were larger shells of many kinds and shapes, some as delicate as flower petals, others, though small, built to withstand any battering sea. _We shouldn’t collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. We must collect only a few. They are more beautiful if they are few._

            A little further along the beach, a boy thrust a length of driftwood into the sand, scraping it along the surface as he began to run towards the two girls; wild in his abandon, his black hair swept up against his face to reveal his prominent ears. He was panting jovially when he reached them.

            “Shall we race?” Edric Storm was a sturdy lad, full of boundless energy and enthusiasm. _A lady should not race._ She bowed her head apologetically and looked at the pale white shells clutched in her hand.

            “I shouldn’t like to drop my shells…” Sansa's words tailed off lamely and she blushed. _I don’t know what to call this noble bastard. I cannot call him my lord because it is not true. Jon was always Jon. Or brother, or half-brother…_

“Of course not, my Lady. I quite understand,” replied the youth. His smile was full of easy charm. He then turned to the princess, his driftwood lance twisting a hole in the sand by his side. The younger girl paused, glancing at Sansa before shaking her head. The boy let out a dejected huff and shrugged in defeat.

            “I shan’t ask _him_ ,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

            Behind him, and shaking visibly, was Patchface the fool, the princess’ strange and near constant companion. His face was broad and doughy, tattooed with a pattern of green and red squares that extended all over his bald head. He was an unnerving person to behold: his mind was cracked and what utterances he did make were garbled riddles with no discernable meaning. _He scares me. Though I pity him too._

            “Be kind, cousin,” pleaded the little princess. “You know he almost drowned in these dark waters.” The lad huffed again, driving his driftwood lance deeper into the sand with a decisive thrust.

            “Why did he follow us then?”

            “He is my friend. My only friend.”

            Sansa smiled sadly and placed a gentle hand on the younger girl’s arm. _I too know what it means to be without friends._ For so long she had felt a perpetual sense of being out, out, far out to sea and alone—alone in her suffering, alone in her grief, alone in her ignorance. For too long she had carried around the heavy feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day in King’s Landing. _No more. No more. I am safe here. King Stannis will keep me safe._ And yet she knew in her heart that there was no true refuge from memory and remorse. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.

            “ _We_ are your friends too, princess.” She hid her sadness with a smile, though it became truer once she observed the way Shireen’s face lit up at her assurance. Then, feeling a sudden fancy take hold of her, she turned to face Edric: “One race,” she promised him.

            The boy grinned widely and dropped his lance with a soft thud. “Excellent! Yes, a race to the troll ship!” She frowned in confusion and glanced at the princess for an explanation.

            “He means those things over there.” Shireen pointed ahead of her to a cluster of basalt sea stacks: rocky protrusions just beyond the cliff’s edge where the black stone descended into shimmering water. At this hour the tide was in, leaving them exposed to wind and sand, and easy to run to without the fear of being suddenly swept away. “I told him of a legend that says that they were once a three-masted ship, brought to shore by two trolls who wanted to conquer the island. But they were unsuccessful because when daylight came their ship had been transformed. All that was left of it were those columns of rock.”

            Her eyes had followed the directive line of the princess’ arm and now remained fixed on the dark, jagged pillars, rising out of the black sand like some strange three-fingered hand. _Dragonstone is so very different to Winterfell._

            “Let us not dally any longer,” insisted Edric. “Horpe and Clifton have been inching closer!” The two knights were situated a little way off, the sunlight glinting off their plated armour as they shifted impatiently from one foot to another. Every so often they would take a few steps closer: keen to return their charges back to the castle and to join their fellow knights Foxglove and Massey, who were sparring at the barracks.

            “Very well. But only one.” _A lady should not race._ She looked down at the shells in her hand and curled her fingers around them protectively. _One race. Just one. Just so I can know what it truly feels like—to be safe and free once more._

            In due course, the trio lined themselves up in preparation, ready to run at Edric’s eager shout. The pointed edges and peaks of her shells pricked the soft palm of her hand as Sansa held them tightly to her chest. The wind whipped her unbound hair up into a flurry and she suddenly regretted not braiding it. _It’s too late now. Time to run._

            But their movements were abruptly halted. For just then Patchface ambled closer, the bells on his motley costume jangling loudly as he shook and twitched. He wide mouth was stretched into a gleeful smile, though his eyes seemed glazed over; glassy like marbles, but just as hard.

            “He bore her off, he bore her down, he bore her into an orchard ground,” he sang; his voice thin and quivering, like eelgrass swept along by the tide. “A peach for the prince, sweet sorrow for the maid, for under the water the crowned fishes do lay! Ay, ay, ay!” He then began to throw his body from side to side, in what she supposed was meant to some sort of dance. She did not like it. She took at cautious step backwards as the fool inched closer, her fearful eyes darting to her companions for answers.

            “What does he mean?” she whispered, as if afraid that Patchface might overhear her and take a disliking to her words.

            “Nothing,” replied Edric, seemingly unfazed. “He never means anything does he, cousin? Come now, lets race!” And then he was off like a flash, sprinting ahead of them; his feet thudding down hard, leaving indents on the black sand.

            “I think we had better head back now.”

            “Yes,” agreed the princess, her tone solemn but understanding.

            “I don’t feel like running anymore.”

            “Nor I.”

            They began to walk in silence towards the two knights, Patchface trailing behind them. As they walked, the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts, but then their noise grew distant, fading to a quiet murmur as they entered the castle. Edric, upon the realisation that his playmates had deserted him, had resisted returning but was soon persuaded by the promise that he could watch Horpe and Clifton spare with the other knights. In due course, the princess departed for the library, her fool skulking behind her, loitering in the shadows and repeating his odd chant. _I am glad to be rid of him. His words unnerve me._

            Sansa hung back, hesitating in the long, dimly lit corridor. She was unsure whether to return to her chambers or to seek out Aegon’s Garden. _When I’m there it’s almost like I’m home. Home in the godswood._ She felt as if the trees there knew everything she ever thought as she sat amongst them. When she would leave and come back, she never had to remind them of anything; she would begin just where had she left off.

She unfurled her hand and observed her treasures. Back on the beach, staring out at that long stretch of black sand, she had truly felt the desire to run its length; to kick back her legs, to toss up the dust of long lost shells, to keep running and running, and never look back. Running might take her forward; it could even take her home if she weren’t so island-bound; but it couldn’t take her back. Not ten minutes or ten hours, not ten days or ten years. And that was hard to bear. Hard, since back was where she wanted to go, since the past was the only place she wanted to be. Her father’s death was the dividing mark: Before and After. _But I can’t go back. I can’t go back._

            It wasn’t the kind of thing she could ask, but still she wanted to know. Did Stannis Baratheon have nightmares too? Waking horrors? Sweats and panics? Did he ever have a sense of observing himself from afar, as she often did, as if some great force had knocked his body and his soul into two separate entities that remained about six feet apart from one another? When she had sat with him in Aegon’s Garden she had perceived that maybe he did.

            “My Lady Sansa,” a deep, accented voice purred.

            Quite suddenly, a red robed figure appeared before her, as if manifesting from the very shadows that lined the corridor.

            Lady Melisandre was a masterpiece of stillness; her eerie calmness bore a magnetic pull; her pervading tranquillity was so powerful that the very matter of a room seemed to realign itself upon her entrance. She was like a painting come to life: tall, slender, and gliding gracefully without ever appearing to notice the turbulence she created in her wake. _She must turn heads wherever she goes._

            The Red Woman took a step towards her, and then she reached forward and clasped Sansa’s face in her hand. The lady’s skin was strangely hot, but Sansa could not find it in herself to extricate herself from her grasp. Her limbs felt heavy, rooted to the floor, and yet there was a horrible, erratic thumping in her chest, as if a large bird was trapped inside her ribcage and beating itself to death.

            “So young, so beautiful,” the Red Woman cooed. “Will you walk with me a moment?”

            The corridor was deserted. There was no one to turn to, no excuse she could muster. So meeting her expectant gaze, Sansa nodded feebly. _Stay calm and keep quiet._ She let Lady Melisandre weave their arms together, her crimson robes rustling and sliding against her own faded cerulean gown. Their steps were light and their pace slow, and for a moment or two they remained silent. _Stay calm and keep quiet._ But at last her companion broke the silence:

            “I have seen you in my flames, sweet one: a girl to end the encroaching darkness. Already you have been a comfort to the King, though you know it not, and in time, you will prove even more useful.”

            She stared up at the woman, perplexed. _What can she mean? What flames?_ But then it struck her that they were suddenly in the Stone Drum, before the entrance to the Chamber of the Painted Table. _How did we get here? How did time and place speed by without my noticing?_ What was stranger still was that there were no knights guarding the door; this passageway was just as empty as the one they had come from.

            “Why have you taken me here?”

            But the Red Woman did not answer; instead she just smiled and pushed the large wooden door slightly open, so that the voices inside could reach them:

            “Your Grace, if you recall, you promised Catelyn Stark the deliverance of her daughter, should you ever be in possession of her. The girl surely wishes to see what little remains of her family. Why not send her to them?”

            This voice was unfamiliar. Lowborn. Gruff but kindly. 

            “Thanks to Alester Florent, her presence here at Dragonstone is now known to the Lannisters. Whatever he is, Lord Tywin is a man of sense. He will be aware of what a valuable hostage she would make should they somehow reclaim her.”

            There was a pause, and then the sound of shifting papers.

            “If that be the only reason, my King, then there are means by which we can move her undetected—”

            “I would not send that girl to Robb Stark, ignorant of the snares that beset her path, unarmed against the foes she shall meet there.”

            “What do you mean? Her mother, her brother, they wish for her return, for her safety—”

            “Robb Stark wishes to use his sister to right the wrongs caused by his marriage to one Jeyne Westerling. _That,_ Lord Hand, is what Robb Stark wants. She would be at Riverrun barely a week before she is married off to some Frey whelp—some great grandson of that impious wretch.”

            “So you would have her remain here, my King? And guard her to what purpose, to what end?”

            “I would not guard her, nor watch over her. She is no kin of mine. Besides, to do so would deprive her of self-reliance, she might lose the power or will to watch and guard herself.”

            “And if she were to become your kin? Your lords are desirous that you take her to wife, but she is young, Sire, young and—”

            A hand slammed down hard against the table.

            “Do you think I am not aware of this? Aware of their—their _suggestions_? You would speak of her youth, and no doubt her innocence and tender nature, and yet you would have me send her away to warm the bed of some unworthy Frey? All for the sake of her brother’s lustfulness! No, no, I will not have it. She stays at Dragonstone.”

            “As you say, my King.”

            Lady Melisandre closed the door with a quiet _click_.

            That night, lying in her bed, she tried to close her eyes to all she had experienced that day: Patchface’s song, the Red Woman, the news of Robb. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by her thoughts, by _him_ , by the impossibility of explaining it all. _Marry Stannis? But he is so…_

            She remembered standing in Aegon’s Garden. It was raining. He looked at her with rain-coloured eyes.

            The strange thing was, she knew that most people didn’t see him as she did. She knew that she saw something else. And perhaps foolishly, she flattered herself into thinking that at that moment, in Aegon’s Garden, she was the only person in the whole world who truly saw him. _He saved me. He wants to save me still._

            The firelight in her chambers magnified its low shadows, glinted off the forgotten hand-mirror on the table, flickered high upon the walls; its reflections roared orange in the windowpanes, as if the island were burning outside. The whoosh of the flames was like a flock of birds in the quiet room, trapped and beating in a whirlwind near the ceiling. As sleep overtook her, she dreamt that she was also a bird. _Little Bird. Little Dove._ She dreamt of songs flowing up through her throat and then bursting forth from her mouth. She dreamt of feathers budding out of her flesh, of wings sprouting and extending against a cool breeze. She dreamt of flying away. Yet try as she might, she could never fly higher that the treetops.

 …

 _Feathers falling from your wing_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two creepy encounters for our Sansa in this chapter! What can it all mean?? ;)
> 
> Nerdy Side Note:
> 
> \- The descriptions of Dragonstone's beach were inspired by the Icelandic village, Vík's black sand beach. Looking at pictures really helped me set the scene for this chapter. 
> 
>  Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Glad to be back now that all my dissertation stress is over :D
> 
> As always, reviews are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	6. In The Dark I Hear You Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for the kind welcome back! This final chapter is quite a bit longer than I usually write for this fic, so I hope you enjoy ;) Also, just a reminder that this is only the end of part 1...lots more to explore in this verse ;) 
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

_In the dark I hear you sing_

…

White sky. Scant trees fading at the skyline. The mountains already gone. He would never get used to the way the horizon here could just erase itself, leaving you marooned. Adrift. In an incomplete dreamscape that was like a sketch of the world you knew—the outline of a single tree standing in for a grove, spires and chimneys floating up out of context before the surrounding canvas was filled in. It was a kind of amnesia-land, this misty dawn, a kind of skewed Heaven where old landmarks were recognizable but spaced too far apart, disarranged, and made terrible by the emptiness that encircled them.

            He stood alone on a jutting balcony, his fingers absentmindedly skimming the harsh intents carved into the stone: the clawed remnants of long dead dragons. Into the surrounding whiteness he heaved a weary sigh. Like so many other nights, he hadn’t been able to sleep. Too often he would be woken by the heat, the bone-jar and slam of a wall of green fire hurtling towards him. Or the feel of a dagger pressing down on his chest and the distant sound of gurgling blood. Always, _always_ , he would try to find an escape. And always there would be a choice: the light way out or the dark way out. The bright was hot and flickering with fire, but the dark way was where the bodies were. _Best not sleep at all._

            Davos would join him soon enough and would no doubt regard the dark circles under his eyes with quiet dismay. _Always so concerned._ The worry etched into his old friend’s brow was even more pronounced these days; the furrows deepening further still whenever the Red Woman would sweep into the room, sermonising and extoling her Azor Ahai reborn. _I haven’t looked into her flames since before Blackwater. She masks her displeasure well, but I see it in the tightening of her mouth and the curling of her fingers whenever I refuse her._ Melisandre’s presence weighed heavily upon him. Davos had accused the lady of so many crimes, and even to his own ears his defence of her had sounded half-hearted. _Four of my sons died on the Blackwater. She gave them to the flames._ His Hand’s words kept echoing in his mind and would not settle. _Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him, as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother Renly._

            But she had been with him when Renly had died. He could turn to that day as though it were a page in a book. It was written so deeply upon his mind he could almost taste the ink. And yet his Hand’s accusations had unnerved him in a way that perhaps they might not have, had his wife still been alive. Selyse’s death had changed everything. Now whenever he regarded the Lady Melisandre, he felt a tight unease, like a fishing line, hooked upon something that must, inevitably, be dragged from the depths. _But is it foolish to disregard her? She speaks of a darkness that will devour us all. She speaks of signs and swears they point to me. But she sees the death of innocents as the answer. Life through death._

            He had refused her when she had asked for his brother’s bastard as a sacrifice for her Red god. _Was Selyse not enough for you?_ He had wanted to throw back at her. But instead he had remained silent. _I must tread carefully._ At first she had beckoned and lured him into her world with prophesies and promises; then, she had blurred the passageways, disguised all the exits, confused all the images, as if to elude detection. Yes, he had remained silent. That is, until she had suggested he marry and promptly bed the Stark girl. _Your lords desire it, as does the Lord of Light, my King. She is pure of heart, with the blood of kings running in her veins and a womb fit to bear them._ He had looked at her coldly then and demanded that she take her leave of him.

            Sansa Stark was still a girl, a slight lovely girl whose friendship made his sad little daughter smile; a girl whose hair smelt like lavender and whose embroidered skirts fluttered in the restless sea-breeze. A beautiful, captivating child-woman. _And not my concern._

            Gods, how he hated this damned rock. Hated this feeling of confinement. Hated not knowing which path to take or whose voice to follow. _What if our faults and mistakes are the very things that set our fate and brings us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can’t get there any other way?_ But surely it was more complicated than that. For perhaps the opposite is true as well? Where does it ever say, anywhere, that only bad can come from bad actions? Maybe, sometimes, the wrong way is the right way? You can take the wrong path and still come out where you want to be? Or, spin it another way, sometimes you can do everything wrong and it still turns out to be right? _This is wishful thinking._

            “My King, I have Salladhor Saan to see you.” Davos’ voice rang out, reaching him from the far end of the chamber. A considerable amount of time must have passed, though he had barely felt it.

            He turned around slowly and then walked through the stone doorway back into the Chamber of the Painted Table. He pressed his hands against the carved map, his arms bowing slightly from the strain he placed upon them. He huffed irritably and raised his head to glare at the other occupants of the room. Ser Axell and Lady Melisandre stood close behind his Hand and the Lysene pirate. The knight’s close-set eyes held their usual arrogance and the Lady smiled enigmatically as he observed the pair.

            “Well? Start talking, Salla.”

            “The Young Wolf is dead, Your Kingliness. Murdered at his uncle Tully’s wedding.” His Lyseni accent slid over the words like water washes over the smooth stones of a riverbed.

            Stannis stared back at him for a moment, his expression blank, and then turned his gaze back to the Painted Table. He clenched his teeth.

            “You are certain?”

            “I am not seeing the body, no, Your Kingliness,” replied Saan. “Yet in the city, the lions prance and dance. _The Red Wedding_ , the smallfolk are calling it. They swear Lord Frey had the boy’s head hacked off, sewed the head of his direwolf in its place, and nailed a crown about his ears. His lady mother was slain as well, and thrown naked in the river. His uncle Tully has been taken prisoner.”

            _Do these Freys know no honour? And to think, Robb Stark begged me to return his sister so that she might join them at The Twins. I suppose I should feel relief — one less pretender to worry about._ His right hand tightened into a fist.

            “It was the Lord's wrath that slew him,” exulted Ser Axell. “It was the hand of R'hllor!” _Fanatical fool._

            “Is the hand of R’hllor spotted and palsied?” he retorted. “This sounds more Walder Frey’s handiwork than any god’s.”

            The Red Woman swept forward to stand beside him, her long crimson skirts brushing against his legs and causing him to stiffen.

            “R’hllor chooses such instruments as he requires,” she purred. He glanced at her with shrewd eyes, catching the way the ruby at her throat shone ominously. “His ways are mysterious,” she continued, leaning into him. “But no man may withstand his fiery will.”

            He jolted away from her as she brushed her hot hand against his. He then proceeded to walk a short distance around the edge of the table, his movements stiff and rigid. He paused when he reached the area depicting the North.

            “The wolf leaves no heirs, the kraken too many. The lions will devour them unless…” He hesitated and then glanced up, meeting the gaze of the Lysene pirate. “Saan, I will require your fastest ships to carry envoys to the Iron Islands and White Harbour.” The next words he spoke were said between clenched teeth. “I shall offer pardons.” He disliked that word, _pardon._ It was too close to forgiveness. “Full pardons, for all those who repent of treason and swear fealty to their rightful king. They must see—”

            “They will not,” interjected the Red Woman. Her voice was soft and placating. _I am not a child for you to speak down to. I am the King._ “I am sorry, Your Grace. This is not the end. More false kings will soon rise to take up the crowns of those who’ve died.”

            “More?” he bit out. “More usurpers? More traitors?”

            Outside the sea was hurling itself at the island, sending spray after spray right over the top of some of the shorter structures, biting off pieces of the cliff-face. The sound of it was like a roaring beast whose anger knows no limits. At times like this the sea is not the sea—not blue, not even water, but some violent explosion of energy and danger: ferocity on a scale only gods can summon.

            “I have seen it in the flames. The flames you refuse to bear witness to.” She smoothed over the frustration she felt towards him with another smile. “You have doubts, this I know, but My King, I am certain in this—envoys and pardons will not serve you now. You must show the realm a sign. A sign that proves your power!”

            “ _Power_?” he snorted derisively. “I have thirteen hundred men on Dragonstone, another three hundred at Storm’s End.” He swept his hand over the Painted Table. “The rest of Westeros is in the hands of my foes. I have no fleet but Salladhor Saan’s. No coin to hire sellswords. No prospect of plunder or glory to lure freeriders to my cause.” _I have nothing. I have no pieces left to play._

            “You have the Stark girl, Your Grace,” spoke Ser Axell. “Marry her and the North and Riverlands will surely rally in your name.”

            “She is but a child!” he hissed.

            “A child on the cusp of womanhood, My King. And the last living descendant of a great and noble house; a house that once bore the Kings of Winter.” He glared at the Red Woman, bearing his teeth.

            “No. No. It is unseemly. It is dishonourable!” _She has already suffered enough and will suffer again when the news of her brother and mother is broken to her._ He met Davos’ eye and saw the man give an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. _He understands. He sees that it is impossible._

            They continued on like this for a while longer, battling back and forth as one scheme was switched for another. Marriage to Sansa Stark to the blood sacrifice of Edric Storm. _I will submit to neither. There must be another way, another choice. Another way to be the saviour she believes me to be._

            “Who will break the news to her, Your Grace?” Only Davos remained now.

            He kept quiet, staring out of a north-facing window. The night looked bigger than imagining: black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars. He closed his eyes and brought a hand to his forehead. He slowly rubbed his temples between his thumb and index finger before releasing a tired sigh. _I must do my duty. I have done it before: gone blank, pushed forward._

            “I will go to her.”

            “Now, Your Grace?”

            “Do you suggest delaying the inevitable?”

            When he made no replay, Stannis strode purposely from the room. A bubble of fear passed up his spine as he came to a halt outside Sansa Stark’s bedchamber. It was akin to the feeling of standing on ice and suddenly hearing it crack beneath your weight. He had told Shireen of her mother’s death hadn’t he? And she had borne it with quiet resignation. _This won’t be the same. There will be tears. I can’t stand a woman’s tears._ But he had resolved to tell her now rather than wait until the morning, which perhaps would have been the kinder decision—but what did the Freys care for kindness when they slew her brother and mother? _Whether she knows it now or later, the fact of the matter is they are dead. I cannot change that by delaying the truth._

            He rapped on the door and waited for her to bid him enter. _I won’t stay long. I will deliver the news and then be gone. T’would be inappropriate to linger in a maiden’s chamber at this hour._ He heard the latch move and then the door was being cautiously opened. Sansa Stark peeped through the narrow gap and promptly widened her eyes at the sight of him.

            “Your Grace!” she squeaked, ambling backwards and dropping into a low curtsey. He made a gesture for her to rise and guardedly walked further into the room, closing the door behind him.

            Sansa’s long, red hair was unadorned and hung loosely over her shoulders, almost to her narrow waist. It shone brightly in the soft firelight, vibrant against the stark whiteness of her nightgown. She flushed prettily under his intense gaze, hardly daring to look back at him. She tugged her shawl more tightly around herself, surely for modesty’s sake rather than any chill.

            What once had been a sparse, gloomy bedchamber in a forgotten tower had now been transformed into a place that radiated warmth and feminine detail. His eyes wondered over a little earthenware bowl, glazed turquoise and filled with white seashells, and then to the embroidered bedspread, half covered by soft brown furs. Sewn into it were many shades of wool, which formed the central figure of an ash tree, a prancing stag at its foot and a bird amongst its scrolling branches, all of which were framed by a border of undulating vines.

            “Your Grace?” came a timid voice. He met her eyes and clenched his jaw.

            “There is something I must tell you.”

            “Yes, Your Grace?” She gazed up at him with such open trust. _She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to have all her hopes dashed to pieces._

            “House Frey…they have acted without honour, forgoing the sacred guest right. Aye, your brother broke his pact with them by marrying that Westerling girl, but no doubt he hoped to make peace with them through the marriage of your uncle Tully to one of their own.”

            “Wh—what are you saying? What—”

            “Your brother has been slain, My Lady. Your mother also. It is said that they replaced his head with that of his direwolf’s, a crown upon its head to complete the mockery. And your mother, they threw her naked into the river—”

            “No more!” she cried out, startling him.

            She turned away from him, and strode towards the bed to clutch at one of the bedposts in her anguish. He watched as her body began to shake with silent tremors; her pale hands made whiter still by her tight grip; her eyes wide but unseeing. _Some things are too terrible to grasp at once._ Other things—naked, sputtering, indelible in their horror—are too terrible to really ever grasp at all. It is only later, in solitude, in memory that the realisation dawns: when the ashes are cold; when the bodies are buried; when one looks around and finds oneself—quite to one’s surprise—in an entirely different world.

            His heart thudded heavily in his chest and his arms hung limply, _uselessly_ by his sides—the impulse to comfort, to reach for her, halted by the fear of being rebuffed. _Should I go to her? Would she want me to?_

            She did not make a sound until she released the bedpost to press both hands to her chest, as if she felt a great pain there. At that movement she breathed in suddenly. This sharp breath was swiftly followed by a quaking, heart-wrenching sob. He felt his insides lurch achingly at the sound of it, at the sight of her tears: squeezed out from under her now closed lids, running down her face; a torrent of unbridled sorrow.

            “Oh—oh Gods! Oh G—Gods!” she wailed, collapsing to the floor, the white skirt of her nightgown fanning out around her. “M—mother! Robb! Oh Gods!”

            Her breathing was becoming choked, her cries panicked, and all he did was stand there and watch. _I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make the pain stop. I don’t know how to help her._ She wasn’t looking at him, her head was almost in her lap from the way her body had folded into itself; her palms pressed flat against the floor; her arms shaking; her long, unbound hair shrouding her tear-stained face. But then she was calling for him, in between her despairing, panting sobs—but not _Y_ _our Grace_ , not _M_ _y King_.

            “Stannis!” she choked out, in a desperate voice: her chest rapidly rising and falling; her breathing consisting more of sharp, pained inhalations than relieving exhales.

            “Stannis!” she wept again.

            He moved towards her on that second call, his legs quickly bending to kneel in front of her. His hands hastily grasped her upper arms to steady her.

            “I—I can’t—I can’t breathe,” she gasped, staring at him helplessly.

            He inclined his head towards hers and began to shush her gently, trying to calm her and ease her tortured breathing. Yet his efforts did little to abate her sobs, though they did encourage her to lean her head against his shoulder as she all but moaned out in the agony of her grief.

            “I—I can’t—Oh Gods—Stannis—”

            “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Hush now, I’ve got you.”

            Her face was damp and hot against his cheek. _Why her? She cannot deserve this. She does not deserve this pain._ He gingerly moved his hands from her arms to rub soothingly up and down her back, as hers rose up in turn to clutch at his leather jerkin. The sound of her crying became a little less desolate, her breathing a little calmer; it no longer tore at his heart: but it left it bruised and aching. There is no dealing with great sorrow as if it were under the control of our wills. It is a terrible phenomenon, whose laws we must study, and to whose conditions we must submit, if we are to mitigate them.

            A long and gloomy night had emerged from the vestiges of a similarly moody day, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, and so many unavailing sorrows and regrets. The moon hid behind the dark clouds, piled up high in the west like some airy city, wall heaped upon wall, and battlement upon battlement; the light was now all withdrawn; the birds were silent; the gloom of a grieving night dwelt on everything. _There are truths which one can see only when it is dark._ He remembered watching. A girl with hair like polished copper cradled in his mailed arms as the last remnants of battle waged on around them. He looked down at her now and his heart ached.

            “Why—why did you not send me to them? Why!” she whimpered forlornly, her hot, tear-streaked face still pressed to his neck. “You have never known true loneliness. You cannot possibly understand the awful emptiness I felt in King’s Landing, which—which I now feel waiting all around me! I shall—I shall never see them again—never, never, never…”

            “Listen to me!” he said, grasping her arms once more; which startled her into looking at him, her wide eyes meeting his stern gaze. “Had I sent you away, Sansa, you might have been murdered along with your brother and mother, or held captive like your Uncle Tully.” _Or made to marry against your will._ Impulsively he pressed his forehead to hers, as if the press of his skin against hers might impart what it was he could not say. “I could not abide the thought of you coming to harm then, and I thank all manner of false Gods now that that has not come to pass. You are—” He voice caught and his heart stuttered; he pulled back away from her. “You are too _precious_ to—”

            “I’d rather they had killed me too,” she sobbed, unhearing. “It would have been kinder than this.” Her head drooped downwards, causing a curtain of copper to slip from behind her ear, covering her ashen face.

            “No—No, look at me, Sansa. Look at me.” He tilted her head upwards, his fingers threading through her loose hair, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her jaw. “There is madness to be found in sorrow, but there is wisdom too. You are strong. You will weather this storm and you will overcome it. You will not fall into wretchedness, do you hear me?”

            Fate is cruel and Nature—meaning Death—always wins, but that didn’t mean she had to bow and grovel to it. _Even if we are not always so glad to be here, it is still our duty to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, keeping our eyes open and pushing forward._

            She shook her head desolately, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks. “I am all alone. There is—there is no one left who cares for me now.”

            “I care,” he said roughly, interrupting her bleak thoughts. “ _I_ care, Sansa.”

            She pulled away from him then, though just a fraction, but enough so that she might observe him better. Her red-rimmed, teary eyes were full of questions and a hint of incredulity. His confession had shocked him a little, though he knew now that no words could really encapsulate the depth of his feeling. _I feel…protective of her. As if she were mine in some way. Mine to watch over. Mine to keep from harm._ Stannis held her gaze and continued on speaking in that low tone of his:

            “I promised you my protection once before, on that godforsaken ship, do you remember? Well, I will renew that promise to you again now.” He moved his hand to brush away her hot tears. His fingers were impossibly gentle, as if he were afraid that his fumbling touch might cause her further distress. “I will keep you safe. No harm shall come to you, Sansa, not ever.”

            She stared back at him, all the while blinking back fresh tears. _I am so useless at comfort. My words are like dead weights trying to stay afloat in a rough and restless ocean._

            “Do you swear it?” Her voice was so small: a lone pinprick star hanging amidst the blackest of heavens, so forlorn and yet so hopeful.

            “I swear to you. There is no wealth that could buy these words from me, nor the meaning that belongs to them. I mean what I say. I do not throw away words like idle breath. I have weighed them, and I will be true to what I undertake.”

            Outside the sea howled and crashed wildly, as if to mirror her thundering grief. For the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some great, unshareable sorrow, which it shuts up into itself for all eternity. It is not like the forests, like the godswood of Winterfell, which are never solitary, who are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. No, the voice of the sea speaks to the soul, and it spoke loudly and harshly to Sansa’s own agony. And yet all at once a deathly quiet descended upon that stirred up wash of blue chaos, so deep a hush that it scarcely whispered of the time—it might have stopped, for all they knew.

            Overcome with exhaustion, she leant heavily into him. One of his hands moved swiftly to cradle her head to his chest, the other wrapping around her back as her bent legs twitched and bounced; her body so alive to the grief she felt and never fully at rest, despite her weariness.

            “There m—must be another life, we can’t—can’t be created for this kind of suffering!”

            He kept silent, unsure of how to respond. So instead he just rocked her gently: back and forth, back and forth. _I can do this. I can hold her. If she wants to be held, I will hold her._ For Stannis Baratheon, suffering had been stronger than all other teaching, and though once he might have claimed that it had bent and broken him into better, _stronger_ shape, now he was not so certain. He did not feel strong now, though he desperately wished to be _._ He felt useless. _Powerless._

            Gently manoeuvring her into his arms, he rose with stiff legs creaking slightly from too long spent kneeling upon that hard floor. The bed dipped under their joint weight as he laid her down amongst the embroidered leaves, brushing the hair from her face as he did so. He paused, observing her for a moment, and he then rose to leave.

            “Where are you going?”

            He looked over his shoulder at her: suddenly so small upon that large, canopied bed, eyes so sad and beseeching.

            “Stay,” she whispered. “Just for a little while.”

            Lie—such an outright lie. He gave her a strained, sad half-smile that told her he knew it too. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. When he shifted to his side upon the bed she reached for his hand and closed her eyes. No tears dropped over her pillow; in the state she was in now, the heart has no tears left to give—it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence. Their hands were tucked between them on the bed. She clung to his, while he seemed almost scared to hold hers back. That didn’t matter either. In due course, he tugged her towards him. She wrapped an arm around his waist and rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He gently stroked her hair.

            Sleep came to him at first like a thin tide of water. It would lap against his body until it steadily submerged him, slowly pulling him under.

            He dreamt that he was in a garden. _No, not a garden. An orchard._ Nearly two-dozen fruit trees, some slanting slightly, others growing straight and then spreading wide into branches bearing round drops of red and yellow. Looking upwards, he saw a rich, mindless, never-ending blue, like a promise of some ridiculous glory that wasn’t really there. Each tree had sufficient space. The sky exactly fitted the leaves. When the breeze blew, the line of the boughs against the orchard wall inclined fractionally and then returned.

            He watched as a grey wagtail flew diagonally from one corner to another, his eyes catching the flash of its bright yellow belly as it sped by. It then fluttered just above the grass until it made a gentle landing. Cautiously hopping, the bird advanced towards a fallen peach, tilting its little head with curiosity. A whole world seemed to be compacted within these orchard walls. A carefree world of simple, natural pleasure. _I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to leave._

            He reached up to let his fingers ghost over the velvety curve, the bursting blush of red against orange and yellow. _A man should never refuse the taste of a peach._ The fragrant, luscious, juice-dripping-down-your-chin perfection. _He may never get the chance again._ Wasn’t that what Renly had said? _Life is short, Stannis. Remember what the Starks say. Winter is coming._

            His thoughts were interrupted by a laugh, which sounded like a sweet bangle of bells. So he turned, and then he saw her.

            She was barefoot, her little feet almost hidden in the long grass. _The Maiden reborn._ The opals that hung from her neck flushed green, flushed rosy, flushed orange, as the sun, oozing through the peach-trees, filled them. When another breeze blew, her white dress rippled like a flower attached to a stalk; the grasses nodding; the leaves whispering in concordance. He felt bizarre, fantastic, nervous, like someone in a high fever. Her beauty drowned him. As he stood before her, he felt he would do anything she asked of him. She was colour and brilliance and strangeness. _And her hair is wet._

            “It’s dew!” she laughed. “I’ve been lying in the grass. All morning long, I laid here waiting for the dawn.”

            “Sansa…”

            “And I was waiting for you, Stannis. I was waiting for _you_.”

...

_In the dark I hear you sing_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!? (for now)
> 
> In the section where Stannis is told about the Red Wedding by Salladhor Saan, I've used some of the dialogue from Davos V, A Storm of Swords. But I tried to adapt it a bit to take into account Stannis POV and the events of this AU. I hope I've left a few hints in this final chapter that tie up some of the lingering questions from the last chapter...as well as opening up a few new ones! ;)
> 
> Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- I couldn't resist specifying that the tree embroidered on Sansa's bedspread is an ash tree, which is just a nerdy reference to Yggdrasil, the immense ash tree in Norse mythology. It's basically a world tree, sitting at the centre of the cosmos and extending far into the heavens. Lots of different animals, including four stags live in/around this tree and its three roots link up to certain mythological locations as well. A pretty cool tree.
> 
> \- Also did a bit of peach research and apparently in Ancient Greece the peach was the sacred fruit of the god of marriage, Hymen (no joke). So in the Greek tradition, peaches are symbolic of a happy marriage as well as virginity, as the wedding day is the day in which the virginal state of the bride ends. In religious art, peaches are also often depicted with the Virgin Mary and child, symbolising salvation. So those are some interesting things to consider I think ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed part 1 and are looking forward to part 2. As always, reviews are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


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